Growth
by Aruetii
Summary: After Dxun, the Exile is having trouble sleeping. Character study, I guess?
1. First Day

_The jungle moon had been a nest of virulent life. Now death in grand scale wrestled with it, subsuming the millions of smaller deaths into an atrocity that was at once premeditated and random. It lay beneath the trees and above them, in the chatter of anti-air barrages, piled thickly in the trenches and dark places of the earth._

 _The squad of Republic troopers moved quickly through humidity that hung in the air like a shroud, glancing around in the jungle's constant movement. They were career soldiers - the only reason they stood a chance - and led by a general who was unafraid to die._

 _At her hand signal, the squad came to an uneasy halt. There was nothing apparently unusual about this constricted spot of foliage, but, aware, they scanned the whole area, alert to light. The General stood still, battle-ready but apparently listening, chasing a shadow with her mind. Eventually she shook her head._

Hostiles up ahead, _she signalled._ Move out. Move quiet. _Her stimmed-up second-in-command began to shake gently, anticipating. They crept on, though, through foul-tasting droplets of stale water falling from a tangle of vines, some distance up. The jungle bristled at their intrusion, their single-minded purpose, but remained silent save for the whisper of grass underfoot and the distant calls of birds. A lone animal, about hip height for most of the squad but built with too many sets of claws, evaluated them from the top of a boulder as they gave it a respectful berth. In the distance, the everyday struggle of life against itself carried on._

 _The unrelenting vitality around them obscured the Mandalorian sniper from the General's perception until it was too late. She whirled, shouting, and a trooper's head puffed blood and brain. A body above them slammed into clustered tree trunks metres away, the cloaking device mounted on its armour sparking uselessly. Three birds cried out and scattered._

 _Blaster fire from up ahead streaked towards the squad. The General yelled. The trajectories of her saberstaff were a rich orange blur as she advanced on the enemy position, her men matching her pace, matching the enemy's shots, chaos inflicted on both sides as the Mandalorians engaged with fearsome precision. She had failed them. She would make this count._

 _"For the Republic!" she screamed, knowing she was finally about to die. "The Republic!"_

* * *

Anark Miercur sat up in the empty room and pulled a jacket and trousers on over her underwear: whatever didn't smell of smoke and blaster burns. She hadn't slept on Onderon much, either, so she was used to it by now. Still, a cursory glance at her reflection while she splashed her face with water said she looked just as bad as she felt - _not that it matters_. They were well into hyperspace and the feel of it all still resonated within her, a physical tugging in her chest.

So she walked.

She knew Mandalore knew what she was doing when she passed him - not even giving her the mercy of turning away and pretending to look at the holographic star map in front of him. It was halfway through the _Ebon Hawk_ 's night cycle. She kept walking, searching for something to take her mind out of itself. The endless white rain of hyperspace outside the ship pulled at her thoughts like a tide as she circled.

Atton looked up at her footsteps. The exile stared defiantly back at him - _just say something!_ He looked away. After a while, he heard her settle quietly into the co-pilot's chair, an uneasy animal nesting, and he pretended to be engrossed in his datapad. There wasn't anything to say to her.

Anark had been even more withdrawn than usual after their hasty escape from Dxun: it was clear why. It was also clear that she still wasn't the kind of girl who'd take him up on an honest offer of help. Maybe that was for the best.

He wondered whether there had been more to the story on Onderon, too. He'd been told the exile was taking a Mandalorian shuttle offworld a day after Kreia had threatened him not to finish the _Hawk_ 's repairs too quickly, then once she'd finally got back to the ship she'd had their Mandalore, of all things, in tow. Only the old hag had looked happy about that one - Atton had decided to start sleeping with a knife close to hand, just in case. Wouldn't Anark be better off if that guy were to disappear one night-

He set the datapad aside, keeping his mind carefully occupied, pulled the battered deck of pazaak cards from a pocket. Shuffled, shuffled again, began to deal. If she wanted to take her mind off whatever it was, this would give her a chance; if not, it was something he might as well do anyway, for lack of better entertainment.

"Playing pazaak on your own?"

"I just can't get enough of it." He turned, ready to offer her an out. "Seriously though, I need to wait for the _Hawk_ to finish these diagnostics and it's about the most interesting thing I can do on my own."

She quirked an eyebrow at that. "That why it took you so long to repair the ship?"

"Hey," Atton protested, "we had a coupla holdups, okay?" _One of which is still on the damn ship…_

"Yeah, I get it," said Anark, who obviously didn't. That old hag would have a lot to answer for, in time. Atton swallowed his wounded pride as best he could and continued, now she'd proven herself capable of conversation.

"So, how about a game or two? I was thinking- you Jedi have the whole 'mystical calm' thing down pretty well, good enough for bluffing if you knew what you were doing. Use the Force too, we could be rich by the time we leave Dantooine."

"I just spent most of our Telos bounty money on a replacement chassis for our broken droid, so, yeah, we should probably at least have you brush up on your skills with a sentient opponent." The exile shrugged noncommittally. "Don't see any of the locals wanting to hire a fresh face as a bodyguard, anyway."

Atton scowled despite himself. "Hold up. Are we actually getting another pet droid? With our _food money?_ "

"It was on the _Hawk_ before I found it. I thought maybe it could help figure out this whole mess we're in. Are you dealing me in or not?"

"Sure," Atton said grumpily, "but I want it on record that I think it's a terrible idea. You do remember what those assassin droids looked like, don't you?"

She smiled.

"I got my lightsaber back. We're covered."

"Whatever you say, sister."

The exile lowered her gaze to the hand of cards he'd dealt her, huddled slightly in her too-big jacket. She looked like she hadn't slept in days, as if something behind her skull was sucking all the life back into itself, the bruise-tender skin under her eyes swallowing them in purple. It hurt to think he could do nothing about it.

 _Then stop thinking._

He shuffled his hand. Looked at it. Shuffled again. Not bad. Maybe next time he could bring out the switch cards, give her another lesson in pazaak - since it was the only thing he could give her. He stopped that thought before it could go anywhere.

"Okay, let's do this," said Anark, leaning sideways - haphazardly - on one of the flight consoles. "Ready to be amazed?"

He won, of course, 'cause damned if he was going to go _that_ easy on her. They played a few more games, too, before the _Hawk_ 's navigation computer chimed at Atton to let him know diagnostic was finished. After he'd double-checked everything to make sure the ship didn't need to leave hyperspace early, he turned back to the exile, who had fallen asleep in the chair with her head resting precariously on one arm. The apology he'd had ready stayed silent on his lips.

"Guess there's no good reason for me to stay here," Atton muttered to himself. No point waiting for her to wake up or anything - especially with how tired she'd looked. Seeing her asleep like that definitely didn't make him want to pull another all-nighter himself, either.

He gathered his pazaak cards from the console. He thought about bringing the exile something, a blanket or pillow from one of the spare beds, but maybe that was unwanted and presumptuous. It was hard to tell with that self-sufficient act sometimes.

As Atton made his way back to his dorm, already shedding his outer layers of clothing because no-one else _should_ be up at this time, regardless of what Mandalore thought he was doing - he considered things. Two months ago, he'd never have expected that he'd have a Mandalorian as his bunkmate, nor that he'd have been pressganged into joining a crazy old scow's save-the-world group. Then again, he hadn't _not_ been expecting it. Life just had a way of… happening… to him.

He toed off his boots as he sat down, the metal bunk creaking slightly. The Zabrak mechanic next to him stirred, but didn't wake.

If nothing else, it still beat starving to death in a Peragus force cage.


	2. Second Day

It was obvious why their would-be assassin wore a hood as soon as they'd removed it to treat her wounds. Where her eyes should have been were two large and unnatural-looking gouges, far beyond the _Hawk_ 's capacity to heal if they'd wanted to. That, and the extent of the scars written across the woman's body - scars too deliberate to have been done in battle - made Anark want to trust her when the assassin pledged allegiance.

She'd woken after a few hours of sleep to an empty cockpit, dizzy from the galaxy streaking past at lightspeed, but the sleep had been dreamless. In medbay, finding the woman - Visas - awake, she'd demanded as many answers as she could, furious with both Visas and herself for apparently having overlooked ship security so greatly. What little she'd gotten out of that questioning had shaken her enough.

 _It was like a sound, at the edge of hearing. And when I heard it, I found I could not ignore it.  
_

She dug nails deep into her palm, hoping to break that slow, dull pain in some form of release. Regret for the pain meant erosion of the self, to yearn for a comfortable non-existence. No matter how much hurt it caused her to return- here she was, fulfilling whatever purpose was set out for her.

She let her steps quicken. She lurched into a run, clumsy over the first few seconds but feeling her body fall back into the proper posture; the hilt of her lightsaber thumped the tender flesh at her hip and she winced, trying to avoid it. Only enough to get her blood pumping and to shake off the grip of sleep. Twenty laps of the ship should do. Her footsteps rang heavy on the _Hawk_ 's metal gangways and she felt vaguely embarrassed at the thought of someone being up early enough to see her doing this - running in circles, like a cannus solix on its wheel.

She wondered when the necessity borne on Telos and Peragus had become inescapable fate. She knew it was part of what she'd been running from in exile proper, with all that had meant. Now she couldn't push it aside any more; nor did she want to.

Her breath sang in her ears: still controlled, still easy. She found herself counting the dim shapes of emergency lights set into the walls. Pointless. Awareness back into the body. Concentrate on the movement of arms, the thin taste of reclaimed air. She lost focus again, too quickly.

She wasn't the kind of person the galaxy seemed to need right now - not even back at the Academy had she been that Jedi, the calm and collected sort who'd spend five years in exile meditating and snap right back into peacekeeper mode when called. All Anark Miercur wanted was to be left alone, to live or die on her own terms.

A feeling of violence descended upon her. She pushed herself faster, trying to keep her pace low enough that it was still a warmup for what was to come. She had believed utterly that she must never again _care_ , had spent those years wandering from planet to planet under a black mood. That agency was drifting away from her very quickly, as fast as it had been thrust upon her.

 _Faster!_

She denied her body and slowed to a trot, then a brisk walk. Twenty laps. It was starting to make her feel vital again. The cargo bay door stood open already and she strode through it, unhooking her lightsaber from her belt. They had two more day-night cycles until Dantooine.

If she had known, back then, that any of this was going to happen, Anark never would have taken up the staff to replace her Jedi weapon. As it stood now, she'd spent at least half of the fight at the Mandalorian camp in Dxun trying not to do what was second nature by now and change leverage along the length of the double blade, which would simply have cut her fingers off. Kreia had had a few choice words to say about that. She'd improved since then, but she still wasn't completely comfortable again with the unique properties of the saberstaff.

Her double blade glowed an almost painful yellow in the dim light of the cargo hold, burning dust. She thought about an opponent in front of her. (It was taller than her - as always.) Thought about each zone of its body, about which strike would hit where. Then she dropped easily into Jedi Guard stance and carefully executed each of those strikes.

The saberstaff's lack of mobility, and her relative lack of control, almost made her yearn again for her old weapon. But she was nothing if not persistent, and she had an image in her head of herself at Dxun the first time.

She repeated each strike, so slowly she had time to feel each movement fully in her body, over and over, seeking a focus and precision she hadn't thought about years. It brought her down into herself and felt good, like something to take pride in. The lightsaber's weight in her hands was alien to her, but similar enough that her memories, the memories of doing this every single morning, were sinking into her, electrifying her. She let the stretch in her muscles bring her into total concentration.

Then she reached out to the Force instinctively and found nothing but a yearning. The memory of an echo.

Anark struck out wildly in front of herself - convulsively - scorching a groove deep into one wall and singing the loose hem of her undershirt before she realised.

"The Force is not something to be relied on," said Kreia, from behind her. "Not at this time, exile. Perhaps you will grow into your former abilities, given time, but-"

"But perhaps not," Anark said vehemently. "I know that."

"I am not so convinced that you do."

"I'm not in the mood to talk about this, Kreia."

"You let your would-be assassin live," said Kreia pointedly, as Anark finally turned to face her, her extinguished lightsaber dropping to her side. "Why?"

"Because I don't know what's going on and you're not telling me. At least she has some use."

"And you would trust such a one to speak truthfully?"

Anark sighed. "I don't know yet. She has to prove herself, but if she's who she says she is… I can't afford to throw that possibility away."

"I am gratified, at least, to see that you've given the matter some thought," said Kreia. "But it is a treacherous path you walk. Be certain you do not stray from it."

"Yes," Anark said, clipping her lightsaber slowly back to her belt as she picked her jacket up. "I understand that."

"Later today, I will instruct you in your meditation practice. You must be prepared for Dantooine mentally as well as physically, exile."

"I understand that too." At least there would be no _talking through things_. Kreia wouldn't care about that.

"Then I await your lesson… with high hopes."

Later, redressing in the small closet that passed for a 'fresher, her scar itching from the sonics, Anark realised that this must be the first time Kreia had ever seemed pleased with her. It was a strange feeling.

* * *

Atton didn't need to be sitting in the _Hawk_ 's cockpit this time, but he wanted to see if their resident _not-a-kriffing-Jedi_ would show up again. Call it unprofessional curiosity. So he was playing pazaak again on his own, making himself look approachable.

He'd just about convinced himself that it'd been a one-off (more pleased than regretful about that, _honestly_ ) when, sure enough, there she was, the dark circles under her eyes far from gone. She stood, drawn up as tall and as rigid as she could evidently manage, even though she had to know it wasn't fooling him at all. And at that thought, she grinned briefly, apologetically, and spun round to leave.

"Hey, wait," called Atton, without thinking. _Pfassk._ "I, uh, was wondering if you wanted- well, I mean, you were saying you wanted me to get my pazaak edge back-"

"I'm not in the mood for it, Atton," said the exile, pulling her jacket closer together. "Don't really feel like talking. Sorry."

"Look, I'm only here because this chair is a damn sight more comfortable than my bunk. I can go back. Seriously. Don't go just because of me."

She sighed quietly, shifting her weight, leaning a little on the doorframe. Atton stood up.

"Probably time for me to get some sleep anyway-"

"I didn't mean it like that," Anark said. "I just- it's been a long day. I wanted to be somewhere quiet."

"I can be quiet. You saw me with that stealth field generator back on Telos, right? Well- you didn't see me, I was using the generator, but I'm pretty good at being silent-"

Her eyes widened; she let out a short bark of a laugh, apparently despite herself. "Just sit down and shut up, Atton."

"Yeah. Good plan."

Watching the ship manoeuvre through hyperspace must be calming, somehow, to her - that was it. Curiosity sated. He studiously avoided taking his gaze from the solo game in front of him, even when he drew, improbably, the only +4 card in the deck and summarily went bust. At least she wasn't watching.

He wondered what she thought of him playing pazaak by himself. It was second nature to Atton by now, although he usually just did it in his head. Anark probably saw it as another of those foolish things he'd indulge himself in. The thought repulsed him. He threw the cards away from him, whipcracking them across the console before he caught himself.

She was asleep again. This time she'd not been as prepared for it, head hanging down sideways off the chair, her hair just obscuring her face at this angle. She was going to have one hell of a neck ache when she woke up; even Jedi weren't immune to things like that.

 _She trusts me,_ Atton thought. It felt like a punch in the gut. _I need to stop doing this._ He looked at the bare skin of her throat, the line of her legs thrown out in front of her. He wrenched the pilot's chair round violently.

That cold familiar rage stalked with him through the corridors of the _Ebon Hawk,_ dizzying him, gripping him at the wrists to keep him going. Knowing his captor could almost certainly sense it only inflamed him even more. Now he found himself in the 'fresher cubicle, glimpsing his reflection in peripheral vision as he went to seal the door, and the look on his face caught him with unexpected intensity. He bent his head against the mirror as if he were trying to break through. His hands clenched just to feel flesh, shaking to the beat of his pulse, and he felt just as helpless as before.

He had to get off this ship.


End file.
